Wishing he didn’t find so many holes
in my work, at least, that is, all at once;
my love, for me, takes on different roles,
determined to prove that i’m no dunce,
and yet, i must ask, is it all too much?
there’s no point to answering these questions
if, along the way, i wax out of touch,
and succumb to the devil’s machinations,
hurting myself to achieve his ends.
I have enough, at the moment, on my plate:
the action, to save myself, onward tends,
but urgency is the byproduct of hate,
reducing the moment to time out of mind.
i want, instead, to please my sweetheart,
focusing on her, and being as kind
to myself, such that my love is an art,
making it possible to sleep, in fact,
and not the other way around. i go,
some mornings, to the battle i enact,
desperate to learn what I do not know.
But i don’t need to know everything—
life is too short, depending on knowledge
to get you by. i might count myself a king,
if, on the contrary, i could stick to a pledge,
refusing to encourage his anxiety.
But, sadly, my love carries a burden,
and i must help him, if i can, to be free—
a stranger worth Him, a man among men.
There are those, even now, that assist me,
overextended, a little, by my part—
to interpret the structure of eternity,
and apply it, each day, to my art.
The difficulties i face make me mad,
asking, as i do, how things get so complex,
when, once answered, it seems i’ve been had,
distracted, too much, from the fairer sex.
So i tip my hat to be safe and sound,
getting to bed, on time, as a routine,
relying, like him, on mutual ground—
making myself both righteous and clean.
Perhaps the day will come, on in years,
when i am not driven to save face
at the expense of shifting heavenly gears.
One day i’ll embody His mutual grace,
if, that is, my actions come to aught,
and my lover finds shelter that never ends,
walking a line that the worldly bought,
when His soul succumbed to the bends.